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About The Omaha morning bee. (Omaha [Neb.]) 1922-1927 | View Entire Issue (July 5, 1924)
JO ELLEN By ALEXANDER BLACK. Copyrlrtt, Il!4 ■■■■■', ■ — ■ — .— - (Continued From Yesterday.) Marty was sturdy enough, though aonie inches short of Stan’s height, with no point of cousinly likeness that she could discover. Perhaps there was no weak Mne in his face, lie was a good looker. His deep, olive brown eyes were wide and steady. His chin was all right. But in the lips, where you looked for resolute ness . , . Well, it might be that there was a cruel possibility in Stan's lips, something that waited nearer than in Marty's. And was she only imagin ing the cousin? She couldn’t be sure. He was vivid in her feeling; extraordi narily vivid. But very likely he didn't look quite as she thought. And what did it matter? She plucked one of the weeds beside her and threw it into the whispering cavern. If Stan had been caught in the house he would have thought she had told the man—the dick. By now he knew better, even if she hadn't found a way in the boat to explain the truth. The boat had been the best explainer. And now he was free, though you couldn’t be sure. He might have. . . . Yes, he migl}t have run straight into handcuffs. At this moment he might be in some jail or other. And he hadn't done the thing they were after him for. ", . . the way they pile up there out of the dark." Marty was saying something pretty about the trees. He stirred as if out of a dream and drew closer to her, reaching for her hand. She let him take it and had a qualm of exquisite guilt that she should compare that, too—tlie touch. If it had been Stan bamar a kind of thin tire would have raced up her arm . . . spreading like one of those nerve diagrams in the physiology. . . . She set herself to begin forgetting about Stan Bamar, and began at the same time to feel restless. Marty’s hand was warm and tense. "I wish we lived here again,” he said. “I'm tired of it," returned Jo El len. “I guess I've had enough of it. It’s no place to live—in a live city.” "But think of downtown. Crowds and flats and noice. This is like the country." "Exactly!" cried Jo Ellen. “And I’m sick of the country. Sick of it. It’s all right for kids." "Where would you like to live?" "Anywhere—I mean anywhere else. I guess It's to get away, mostly.” "I see," cried M'.rty. He had no wish to argue then. He felt ardently in agreement with all she might wish. Something that came to him in the feel of her hand gave him a poignant compassion. He was sure that he knew, acutely, just what she meant, just what she felt. Her need seemed to be aching and asking in the vast stillness. He peered into the cavern, at the fantastic silhouettes that multi plied endlessly, as if to mirror the immensity of the constellations over head. The great beauty that flowed about them reached sharp contact In the lovely softness of her fingers. He did not notice that in her rest lessness she had reached downward with her other hand. Her face was lifted to the stars. "Aren't they terrible?” she ex claimed. This turned him quickly. "Terrible . . . ? What . . . ? “The mosquitoes," said Jo Ellen. "My legs are all bitten up.” "Oh! I didn’t—I didn’t notice them," he fumbled. She drew away the fingers he had been holding. “Let's go," she said. He assisted her to the level of the ridge. When they came to the turn, the moon caught them and sent long shadows of their figures wriggling like gnomes that led the way. PART TWO. Breaking Away. I. At the foot of the house step§ Jo Ellen said: "I won't ask you up." She feared he might sit too long. There seemed to have been enough of everything that had been happening. And of Marty. Enough for one day. Besides, she wanted to rub something on the mosquito bites. No offense sounded in the tone, and Marty, squeezing her hand, moved lingeringly away with a wave of his hat. Jo Ellen mounted the first flight of Uncle Ben’s steps two at a time. This having completed a sense of dismis sal, she entered a new reverie in the slow mounting of the second flight. It was not until she came quite to the top that she saw the figure of a woman seated half in the sharp shadow cast by the moon. Not her mother; a wiry woman with Iron gray hair who stood up alertly. “You're Ellen," said the keen voice. “Yes.” "I’m your grandmother.” "O Grandmother!" Jo Ellen’s arms went out and in the embrace she kissed her mother’s mother cordially on the cheek. Grandmother Bogert swung her into the moonlight, then swiftly lifted oil her hat. In the sun Jo Ellen’s hair had the sheen of Spanish topaz; in the rays of the moon it was more to be likened to India garnet. The grandmotherly eyes made an elec trically quick survey of all that stood before her. "My God! Think of this running loose!" Jo Ellen laughed. "She runs loose all right,” came Uncle Ben’s growl from the house door. “Isn’t this rough? Grandmother and granddaughter have to introduce each other! Your mother’s in bed." he informed Jo Ellen. "They talked themselves into headaches.” "Mind your own affairs," command ed Uncle Ben’s mother. "But you admitted it," said Bogert. "I never admit anything,” was the retort, "at least to a gabby man." "O well, if you haven’t a head ache—’’ "I suppose you had a good time,” said Mrs. Bogert to Jo Ellen, drawing her to a seat on the porch bench. "Quite a day." "I saw Coney Island when you were a baby.” "I took her,” said Uncle Ben. "And made a mess of it. Forgot his money.” "Never forget your money when you come near a woman!" cried Bogert. “Unless,” returned his mother, "you can choose, as you did, a woman who has something in her own pocket.” "Pocket . . !” Uncle Ben snickered. "Yes, pocket. I always have a pocket. And we’d had to walk home if I hadn't had something in it that day." , “Paid you hack.” laughed Bogert "Naturally," said his mother. "Now, Ellen"—Uncle Ben drawled this—“speak nice to your grand mother. I’ve told her you’re not so bad ns she might think." "I wish you’d shut up," the elder Mrs. Bogert interposed with a stern sort of grin. "I can see, Ellen, why you may have lacked any kind of bringing up. A good thing, maybe, if you’ve escaped being influenced at all." Bogert bellowed bis Joy. "1 never beat her unless she deserves it. do I Ellen?" “The trouble is. my dear," and the grandmother scrutinized her with a frowning benignity, "that the family ain't much to go on as far as beha vior is concerned. Here I was, a darn good Presbyterian hen who hatched two wild ducks. Imagine! Never could do much with them. If you're an other, it’s to be expected.” Jo Ellen was chuckling. "Generally I'm quite tame," she said. "Generally. My wild ducka were tame enough most of the time—stu pidly tame. I’ll say. It's the wild spots that make the trouble." A white figure apt>eared in the door way. "How do you think T can sleep," complained Jo Ellen's mother, "with you people gassing here at this rate?" "As usual," retorted the grand mother, "it's Ben Bogert's noise. 1 wish you'd go to bed, Ben." "That's it, put it on me." Grandmother Bogert had her way. She wanted to talk with Jo Ellen, and before the moon had left them completely in shadow much had been said, in suitably modulated tones. Jo Ellen liked to hear her talk, but the grandmother's steady, listening look, when Jo Ellen's turn came, some times made the grandmother a bit nervous. At the time the maternal grandfather died h« was foreman of a foundry in San Francisco. When hie wife went east In the period of Jo Ellen's babyhood, he had com plained that he couldn’t get away. Moreover, the expense for two would be prohibitively heavy, he thought Thus It came about that Jo Ellen never sow her mother's father, who had put all his savlngR into a land enterprise that failed, and saw the fading of his Great Dream. His wife, after writing a brief letter telling of his death (ft was as If she were hurry ing toward the next thing to be done), accepted a friend's Intercession and became manager of a millinery shop In Seattle. "I never thought I'd go east again." she told Jo KUen. "I guess I never really wanted to very much. After you get used to the coast—anyway, I haven't had the kind of a job that lets you gallivant any. I've had to stick to It and put off and put off getting on to see you people. When your mother wrote that Ben was down with typhoid It was about the worst time for me. Just a rotten time. Then, after a little, I got to thinking it over and told the outfit I wai off it for a month or so. Loud cries of distress. The old girl was firm. Packed my grip and lit out. Had the luck to strike an awfully good sum mer excursion rate. And here’s dear old grandma." "You're so young for a grand mother,” said Jo Kllen. She meant It. "Fifty-live Isn't so thundering young,'* returned Grandmother Bo gert. And this appeared to suggest «n Idea. She leaned forward to point it out. "Did you ever see a mother In the movies'’ She’* always seventy four. Grandmother* are ninety-six. Seem* when they breed for the am era they start late." (To Bo Continued Monday.) New York ••Day by Day V/ By O. O. M’IXTYRB. New York, July 5.—It was the re opening of Gotham's smartest supper club. The reservations included the creme de la creme of the social whirl. They came with their arms loaded ■with mysterious packages—bottle shaped. It was remindful of an old fashioned box party. By 1 o'cloek all patrons were so tightly wedged in at their tables that it was Impossible to reaeh the pos tage stamp dance floor. Only those who paid the enormous high tariff for ringside seats were able to dance. The crowd at tlie roped entrance ran down to flights of stairs and around the corner in the street. All the old subterfuges to gain admit tance were used. Those who said they were members of the Astor and A anderbilt parties and such. The attraction was the debut of a young dancer currently reported to be the inamorata of one of New York's richest men. There are many stories of her 14-room apartment in a 1’ark avenue hotel and a flock of limousines and ropes of pear!. She came out of a revue and has nothing but a property smile and a wistful look. There were thunderous applause and '’bravos.” It is the Manhattan manner of glorifying scan dal. Flowers costing a fortune were heaped upon her. One of the noticeable features among the ladles was that every head was bobbed. The ubiquitous strings of pearls were caught at the shoulders with orchids—a new fad. Kvery phase of life was represented— the underworld and upper. Social queens, stage and movie stars, playwrights, novelists, million aire idlers and those swarthy and sleek glglios who live off women. At 1 a. m. the most of them were float ing about In an alcoholic maze. It was the 20th century dance Mlcabre. Shs was of a foreign importation known by a single name. Her fame was trumpeted from Paris and New York came to sit at her feet in a musical revue. In four months one man alone recognized her. He sought her out. She shrugged her shoulders. He was mistaken. She had never lived in the little Ohio town from whence he sprang. He was certain and in the end she confessed. She swore him to secrecy, hut a few weeks later she left the revue and returned to Parts. She felt discovery would mean her professional death. The man of Mg affairs in New York usually develops "telegrapltis” after crossing the Hudson. Alone in his drawing room he begins to worry about trivial things thnt would not bother him In his office and so he he gins firing telegrams hack. There is a theatrical producer and a Mg publisher whose telegraph tolls av erage more than $100 a day when they are on a tour. Only three cabarets now have host esses. Tn old days the hostess was supposed to infuse life Into a place by a personal following. They came and disappeared as quickly as a breath on a. window pane—going from cafe to cafe. Now the rhlef attraction In any cabaret Is the orchestra. A tip top orchestra will bring crowds. It Is sure fire. My young friend Tony came to tell me gnodby today. For three years lie has flicked Imaginary lilts of dust off coats In a barber shop. Ib is returning In Italy to bring his parents to America. lie has saved enough out of his Ups to do this and he hns a flat in Gherry street await ing for them. Tony also expects to b» a barber when he returns and eventually own his own shop Copyright 1924.1 Second Honeymoons By Briggs l/JI" ~ -— — __._ _ ' --———----U—I «* t THE NEBBS _ JUST A SMART GUY. Directed for The Omaha Bee by Sol Hess /MR. NE&B. welcome HOME _ / WE HAVE XOUR DESK DECORATED WITH \ BEAUTIFUL. AND COSTLT FLOWERS - A TOKEN OF APPRECIATION OF A GREAT J SERvACE RENDERED NE3B AND ^ - - -v SLIDER _/ /mow -THPcr nw Gupepaor \nteu£CT V FlGUT\NG SP\R'T l WWt ESTMSUSWED {\CLEM?V ?m r TO NW LPCTCGR^nO^UNT.^ ESTATE l HOPE ^uotIt GWES VOO UNClUEST\OnED CONFIDENCE J SSuyy. AWO FOOr-T NOvg Or, YOU CAM f/ \ l.\STEN"TO nw vSpjSE P-Dn\ce WiTV-iQOT y VI (K y\UPN\UROT r-~^T ^ jTOO'LL OUST ACT (GO AVAEAO —TOU COULON T cording to nw get am argument \r IT ATOM AMO DON'T W0U GTlCX APW \NTO T'E. T THAT WASP BRA\M j l\*E TOO SO WELL INMATE TOUR RlGWT NOW TWAX T WILL ^PVAAMT EGO. I LL ta^e at least TWO TOO R'CVA I TOU INTO °O0« STALL WWERE TOU ^ BELONG T-f Barney Google and Spark Plug BARNEY FILLS THE EMERGENCY. Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Billy DeBeck , rlVJE GOT fAN loeKEY yFINET VwoftKiNfr on TVte oorsioe/ VOO ll BE Foe ME . CHARLIE • t \ All SET FOR COLLECT AIL THE V&6 RACC ) DCMSU HE MAKES AND SOC*) *E*r \ IT AVJJAM IN THE BANK * ArA'URDftV VESTEROAT t / 7~ »h t>e POSITED tfa.sg -U16U hflggt* /C\ IMMU'ii] 5oon hav/6 /M\n Enough For CopyT%fct. IW*. fcfTKi Fmm • SrxAunilW. 1 pi ( MNHT (K\#T IK TOO AT THE Horn** 4 BRINGING UP FATHER .-wrv. Dr«'™ (°r °™h* ** ^ McM.nu, (CopyrifDt 1 924) WELL-I'M IN THE CLOAK. AM' ^jOIT E)Ut>INEt>t> • NOTHIN LIKE e>ElM A e>LK>'NE>^> MAN • .__J am^otse that COEB> IMTO itJ tB> ‘BORE TXJ r - C.O BROKE 2/- ; r^n iEzz ZD ^^©.M4 r» IxT t Fmrmw Scwvict. Iwe. *---_ ii JERRY ON THE JOB THE ANSWER IS SI.25. Drawn {or The Omaha Bee by Hoban r~,____ " (Copyright 1924) — « * ABIE THE AGENT Drawn for The Omaha Bee by Hershfield Hr Explain*. „ ✓ / r' ■ /'BlECHc //• S,> lAw'feR <